


A Secret Between Friends

by bmouse



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s05e16 Doctor Bashir I Presume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wanted to tell him, but didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Secret Between Friends

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because I'm still super annoyed that the show never gave us the emotional continuity after the Purgatory's Shadow/Inferno's Light arc. I mean come on, Bashir's big secret comes out right after we learn definitive things about Garak's past? That could have been a hell of a scene. But hey I rescued this guy from my WIP folder so all the frustration went somewhere.

The day after he was revealed to be an Augment, Dr. Julian Bashir was in his Infirmary briskly committing theft.

_Goodness, second day as an out GE and backsliding already?_ he thought to himself as he calmly keyed in the storage access code and angled his back to naturally obscure one of Odo's security cameras. With steady hands he measured and placed a quantity of certain powders, twigs and herbs into a plastic case. Then, with the flow of his previous motions he took out a handful of dry spiral-shaped leaves and let them fall into an open pocket of his satchel.

Re-stocking on-hand case was a weekly task, just another ordinary Infirmary chore. His Bajoran co-workers didn’t even bat an eye as he came out of the storage room to slide the case into it’s place on the shelf. His Human ones were very careful not to look at him directly.

Well, to be fair it wasn’t every day a man was almost dishonorably discharged over something that had been done to him decades ago without his consent and then reinstated as some kind of novelty item, with his future hanging on his shiftless father's first bout of conscience and an Admiral's whim. Worse, he was expected to be grateful for it and, worse - he was. Achingly, pathetically grateful. A younger part of himself, the larger part, had wanted to throw his arms around Sisko's legs and kiss his indifferently polished boots. 

So his daily life went on, but with an increasing sense of unreality as if he was going through an old simulation where the movement and the camera were both on invisible rails. At the same time he was aware that the path could end at any moment. Somewhere ahead the bridge to the perfect future - one where he had never been found out, lay in ruins. It was waiting for him.

Funny, only several days ago clarity and a boundless sense of gratitude had possessed him as he had seen the station through the runabout window after they had escaped from the Gamma quadrant. Just that once, and very briefly, he had been convinced that whatever life he had left truly was a gift, one he didn’t have to pay for. 

They had all ended up in the Infirmary, of course. He’d treated Worf’s injuries and Garak’s electrical burns himself and then, since the doctor on shift had kindly and firmly confined him to sickbay, he’d lain on his cot (next to Garak’s and closest to the door) and turned it all over and over in his head. 

At 3am station time ( his usual wake-up time in solitary) he got up, paced a little, pulled an extra blanket out of a storage bin. He was a person now and not a prisoner, he could do little things like this again. Then he walked over and draped it over Garak. Two minutes later he got another one and repeated the process. This didn’t come anywhere close to balancing things between them but for some reason after that he successfully slept through the night.

Early on in their acquaintance he’d fantasized about Garak slipping up; mentioning a name, a location, or a particular time period. Something that he, being a damn good researcher on top of his other accomplishments, could triangulate through Bajoran backup archives of Cardassian press to learn…well _something_. Frankly anything but the little tidbits of opinion, hearsay and outright lies the former operative had been content (and so very amused) to tease him with. It had been a game, like beating an Academy rival’s test scores.

Garak had let him stay as when he talked to Tain, and now he knew much more than he ever thought he’d know. He knew much more than he knew he really should. It frightened him, though not for the expected reason. Every time he’d found something out about Garak without his explicit consent, the other man had retreated. For days and weeks afterward Julian felt like he had to carefully climb up a vertical minefield, handhold by handhold, gesture by gesture to get him to come close again, to get to the place they’d been before.

What would happen now, after something like this?

There was really only one secret he could give Garak in return that could balance out what he’d heard. That could put them both on equal ground again. Just before his head had hit the pillow he had looked at the cot across, comforted somehow by the large shape underneath the three blankets, and fervently thought ‘Tomorrow, I will tell him.’ 

But the conviction had faded in the morning. That was the thing, he had always been braver unseen than in front of people. When he woke up the bed beside him had been empty, the three blankets neatly folded and set apart from each other as if to show that Garak was aware there were two more than what he started the night with. Julian had stared at them and again, almost, _almost_ chased him down and done it. But then a nurse had come in and there was a report to write and then having smelled himself he went to his quarters to put himself in order.

Little by little any leftover resolve melted inside of him as he took another hot-as-you-can-stand water shower, as he ruthlessly cut his over-long hair, as he ran a tricorder over the superficial bruises the nurses had left alone on his orders. As Julian Subatoi Bashir, Starfleet Lieutenant reappeared in the mirror he felt that he had lost the near-feral energy had reshaped him and tormented him and made him brave.

So since he hadn’t been brave he was doing the next logical thing and stealing _Nalith_ leaves.

Getting them from Quark would have actually been the logical step but it would probably end with both of them getting caught by Odo before the dinner rush. Also he would honestly prefer the recent and rather charmless experience of a Jem’Haddar beating to walking into Quark's right now and seeing the stares. Here was another interesting fact he’d learned about himself recently: his capacity to more-or-less stoically endure physical discomfort was much higher than he'd thought. He was also more than happy to replace emotional discomfort with the physical equivalent or higher. Come to think of it, that last part wasn’t terribly new.

_Nalith_ was a plant native to Cardassia Prime but it was now counted among the standard stock of Bajoran herbal ingredients and he consoled himself with the fact that he could easily buy more on any corner pharmacy on Bajor. He’d also synthesized enough of the plant’s active ingredient in the vanishingly small 0.0032% chance that anything happened. The leaves themselves had mostly been gathering dust since his arrival on the station so at least his first foray into petty crime was thorough, considerate, and victimless. There was even a backup plan where he could say that one of his research projects needed them for a control group but he suspected it would never get to that. After the grand disgrace over his enhancements no one would expect him to have any stomach left for small sins. 

_It’s easier isn’t it, taking stock of this little scheme than taking stock of your life?_

His chances for a future promotion in Starfleet are asymptotically approaching zero. Which hurt. He was a damn good doctor and what that said about Starfleet was enough to make a person cynical. It also presented an interesting logistical challenge. Who was Julian Bashir exactly, without the pursuit of his dashing career? Though he would obviously be allowed to continue his research, so the chances of continuing to achieve some kind of victory over Alpha Quadrant diseases were decent.

_So, you're sad you won't get any more shiny pretty pips on your collar but pleased that you might give others further opportunities to praise you?_

His chances of surviving the war on the other hand... he hasn't calculated. Rather his mind had often started to calculate the odds and he had repeatedly, ruthlessly, redirected it. Was that from fear? Some hidden vein of self-loathing? He couldn’t tell. Honestly he felt scoured by the last two months, as if he’d come out of the camp with less feelings than he’d had going in.

Besides, a full ‘chances of surviving the war’ had too many variables. For example: Serving at what capacity? At his full capacity? What _is_ his full capacity? He’s been too busy making himself acceptable to really know.

His interpersonal relationships might be salvageable. With effort. Enough effort that just thinking about it made him exhausted. Another reason he’s afraid to go to Quark's is because he’s afraid to see Miles again. Afraid that the 'you stand back on that line' darts experiment is not repeatable.  
Something that lovely and awkward belonged in the last ten minutes of a holovid, not necessarily in the everyday. Miles' face had been so earnestly scrunched up, so beatific in its forgiveness.

Was there really something to be forgiven for? His personality, with all attendant deficiencies, was unaltered. It was just that he had deleted a long-running subroutine called ‘Hide the Secret’ and now felt like a burn victim: over-sensitive, missing several protective layers of skin, and repulsed by mirrors.

At the usual table, he sat down. It was not the usual time but according to his prior observations it was the start of the first 15 minutes of as many lunch shifts as possible. All entrances to the Replimat disgorged themselves of a heterogeneous multitude - Ferengi waiters fleeing company-store prices at Quark's, Vedeks and temple trainees taking repast in betweens services, and tourists queueing at the just-opened Klingon/Vulcan fusion restaurant all made a large backdrop of color and sound.

He breathed a ragged, shaky sigh of relief because for once no one was looking at him and just then Garak slipped smoothly out of the crowd and sat down in the seat across. All the breath didn't quite come back in. He had a brief struggle isolating the right epiglottal muscles to keep from sputtering.

"Forgive me. I've missed our lunch last week." he said somehow, around the strangled cough.

“I’m not sure I approve of your timing.”

"Sorry, but this is the only time I've found I’m free lately." 

“Ah, I see...” A kind of mild approval flickered in Garak’s eyes. Crowd-as-smokescreen was terribly basic but the basics were the basics for a reason. "And it looks as though I've missed some excitement! Still, I admit I was hurt to be left out of Dr. Zimmerman's interview pool. He seemed content with skulking around my shop entrance and shooting me terrified looks. Alas, after my last customer I was not in the mood to deal with yet another indecisive person."

"And how are you today?"

"As you see me, doctor." He spread his hands out theatrically but Julian noticed the gesture was a little lifeless.

That wasn’t all. Garak hadn't worn any of his bright coats or tunics since their return. Today he was in subdued charcoal, with only a dark green trim and a honeycomb pattern around the shoulders to keep it from being sinister. His nails were bare - no subtle little overcoat of color on them, and the fact that he hadn’t brought a tray over suggested that lately they both shared the same disinterest in food. The playful tailor was all packed away. Julian wondered if his customers even noticed.

Even his face seemed stark. Here and there the flesh had begun to recede to better reveal the clean architecture of the bone beneath. Then again fasting was a traditional part of mourning for a direct relative and this other Garak; this sober, austere person was also one of the hidden 'truths' of his friend's character. 

"A pity, really.” Garak thoughtfully interrupted his brooding. “I was prepared to give the best of character references! My memory of your excellent bedside manner, for example, is quite fresh. Though somehow I doubt it would have tipped the scales in favor of the project.” He shot him a delicately layered look from under his eyelids before he went on.

"Though one can't help but wonder the reason for our suddenly rescheduled lunch. It is to inform me that they must necessarily grow more infrequent? I am familiar with what increased scrutiny from on high can do to certain _questionable_ habits, and if that is so I can only commend your prudence and feel a certain pride that my lessons have been imparted."

Julian almost smiled. This was one question he knew how to answer correctly.

“Then I’m going to disappoint you. No, don’t frown at me right away Garak. I’ve actually given this some thought and my analysis has led me to believe that it doesn't matter. If I keep my routine, if I change my routine. Either would look suspicious right now. And there are _some_ questionable habits I'd rather keep. I’ve realized they’re too important to me to let them go so easily.”

To his surprise Garak actually accepted that answer. Oh he rolled his eyes and shook his head, as if washing his hands of such a bothersome pupil, but the tuck of his chin conveniently hid his eyes and presented Julian with a pleased crease of his cheek. 

“Then I will continue to reap the benefit of your poor decisions.”

"Feel free.” Julian said, trying for ‘dry’ and coming out with ‘fond.’ “And speaking of, I understand you might have some need for these. From what I’ve read tonight is the right night to burn them."

Alas this was the part Julian Bashir, Novice Botanical Burglar hadn’t thought through quite as well. He ended up awkwardly fumbling the satchel pocket open under the table and proffering a handful of the contents, praying that nothing crunched too loudly. Then he almost ruined the actual transfer by jumping at the touch of Garak’s hands. They had been so cold back in the camp, at least they were warmer now. Blunt, thick fingers delicately plucked the _Nalith_ leaves out of the assorted mess of wires, lint and data rods but to his surprise left a few in his palm.

“You should keep some, you witnessed it.” 

Regardless of his own feelings about the deceased he didn’t object. Garak had still lost a kind of terrible touchstone. He thought about what he would be doing if his own father had died. Probably mourning the loss of an entire world; the loss of the person Richard Bashir should have been, the relationship they should have had. But that was terribly Human of him and probably not quite applicable here. He remembered the old bastard’s dry whisper about the little boy and the riding hound. Or perhaps, a little applicable. 

"Why _are_ you formally mourning him?”

Garak smiled, and it was transparently sad. 

“Because he is no longer in a position to stop me.”

Then he blinked and made a graceful sweeping motion across the surface of the tabletop.

“Unfortunately the hour is passing and I would rather spend our remaining time on more pleasant topics. If you would think back to the last book I lent you before you left for the medical conference. _The Grove After Midnight_ , wasn’t it? What did you think of the second act?”

_Just like that? As easy as that? Can we really...?_ But he was already falling back into the rhythm, into the worn familiar steps of the dance.

“You’re lucky it was a slow trip and I’d actually read that far before we were boarded! It was progressing well. A little _predictably_ , but well. But actually, if we could go back to the intrigue with the heroine’s sister in chapter ten? There’s a few things I’d like to say about that which I haven’t quite been able to, before.”

“Oh?”

"It was a little close to the bone you see. If I admitted that I enjoyed the sister's character arc... Well, it might have given too much away. I… I hope you understand."

Under the table Garak’s hands found his again, without the pretext of the leaves. His fingers stroked slowly, lightly over the top of his hand, always in the same direction as if mindful of the grain of invisible scales. Daringly Julian caught one broad palm and gave it a light squeeze. It was returned. That gave him the courage to look up.

Garak’s face was beatific. In the rekindled light in his eyes, in his entire face, there was anticipation and perhaps relief and absolutely not a drop of forgiveness.

“Well, well, my dear Doctor. All those books we’ve read together… We’ll have to discuss them each a second time!”

Julian smiled the way he thought he never would again.

 

~


End file.
